


The Night Before the End of the World

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (2008)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this, she thought, is how the young live. I'd always wondered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Before the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trickseybird

 

 

Note: Some dialog was lifted from the film in order to tie in with the scene, but liberties were taken with pacing.

**

"There was a time, Edyth, when I knew how to do more than offer idle flattery and gossip."

"Don't be a fool, Joe. Modern society is built on idle flattery and gossip."

**

Sin was soft and warm and smelled of unfiltered cigarettes.

Guinevere took a deep breath, drinking it all in. The club was dark and heavy with smoke, lit by occasional flashes of brilliance. Men and women danced in swirling clouds of silk, following steps she couldn't hope to keep track of. Bare skin glistened with sweat and bodies were pressed far too close. The exciting blare of the brass band gave it all a breathless, magical feeling, as if the Scarlet Peacock were worlds away from the looming threat of war.

So this, she thought, is how the young live. I'd always wondered.

Delysia was already lost somewhere in the crowd. If Guinevere strained and stretched her neck, she could just see her flitting from man to man with the frenzied determination of an industrious bee. Guinevere sighed and moved to join her energetic new charge, pausing to murmur an apology as a tipsy blonde girl wove past, brushing against her arm. The girl looked up, eyes too bright and painted mouth too wide, and laughed breathlessly into Guinevere's face. She looked a bit like Delysia, and that was enough to have Guinevere reaching for her elbow. "Careful now," she murmured, steadying the girl on her feet. "Are you all right?"

"I'm positively flying." The girl leaned in, bracing herself against Guinevere's shoulder, and the protective flash Guinevere felt was almost electric. She'd never been wild with drink and dance and...well, Lord only knew what else, but she had been young once. She remembered what it felt like sometimes.

"Do be careful," she murmured, wanting to draw the girl into her arms, but she was already pulling away with another dizzying laugh, teetering on delicate high-heeled slippers into the arms of a waiting gentleman. Guinevere watched them go, following their unsteady zag across the dance floor as if her watchful eye could keep them from danger. But a bright light cut across the club, blinding, and between one blink and the next the blonde-haired girl was gone.

Guinevere frowned, then shook her head, turning away from the frenetic dance floor. She wove through the press of bodies, doing her best to turn a blind eye to the excess of skin and idly wandering hands. She jerked in surprise when a broad palm cupped her rump and immediately turned to offer the sharp end of her tongue, but there was no telling who was to blame. These young men wore innocence like a mask that could be slipped on or taken off at a whim. They played at morality as if it were a game of chance.

She turned away again, flustered. A brilliant laugh drew Guinevere's attention, and there, of course, was Delysia. The sweeping light caught her for a moment, framing her red-gold hair and trim figure. Guinevere moved carefully to join her, slipping through the thronging crowd even as her charge slid in to join Phil at his table. The young producer's son was positively glowing with Delysia's attention, as shallow and ineffectual as Delysia pretended to be. He glanced up as Guinevere joined them, already burbling over with gratitude.

Delysia smiled. "Why, there you are. I'd been wondering where you'd gone off to. Phil, you remember Miss Guinevere Pettigrew? She's my social secretary, you see," she added, turning to offer her smile to one of the gentlemen leaning over the booth. "And quite a steal if I'm going to be honest."

"Social secretary, did you say? How extraordinary."

"Oh yes, she's the very best. I'm surprised you haven't all heard of her. But I daresay you will soon."

"Guinevere, how lovely," Phil interrupted, turning his beaming smile on her. He was flying high too, if Guinevere wasn't mistaken, color rising when Delysia leaned against his thin frame. "To you I owe a special debt of gratitude. Champagne!" He lifted a bottle, tugging Delysia into his lap as they wove inelegantly together. "The only thing as delightful as my dear Delysia."

Guinevere had to look away from the display. She wanted to reach across the table and snatch Delysia from the fool boy's fumbling arms. It didn't seem right that a young pup like Phil could hold Delysia so close, could know next to nothing about her and could still call her darling as if she meant something to him.

I made a mistake, Guinevere wanted to cry. She looked across the table at her young charge and tried to project, Don't do this. Don't make this terrible choice. Willing Delysia to understand.

Delysia toyed with her champagne flute, squirming as if she could hear Guinevere's thoughts over the brassy roar of the crowd. Phil, of course, was oblivious. "Darling, come on, finish your glass. There's plenty," he urged.

Delysia looked away from them both with a flush of color. "Oh, Edyth!" she suddenly exclaimed, brightening again as the dark-haired woman sashayed toward them. Guinevere drew more fully into herself, feeling those cold eyes settle on her before flicking away. "It is so good to see you."

Edyth lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers lewdly to show off the flashing ring. "It's all back on," she said, voice rich with smug satisfaction. Guinevere looked down at her own hands, strongly controlling the urge to--Well, she wasn't quite sure what she wanted to do to Edyth, but it was almost certainly unchristian. Being around these people, being a part of this whirlwind lifestyle was already changing her. She'd lied, she'd smoked, she'd helped a woman sell herself. And she'd helped lure a poor man into the lonely future of a cuckold.

There seemed to be no limit to the evils she would commit tonight.

"Darling that's marvelous! Did you hear the news?" Delysia asked, winding her arms firmly about Phil. "These two lovebirds are finally tying the knot."

"Congrats, dear fellow. When's the happy day, what?"

Guinevere felt more than saw Joe Blomfield standing outside the booth just by her right shoulder. He was a solid, earthen man. Large hands. She'd noticed them right away, all the way back at the fashion show... And goodness, was that just earlier this morning? It felt like a lifetime.

Guinevere glanced over, watching his hands from beneath her lashes as the others talked. He was gripping a cigar, rolling it absently, as if uneasy. There were a few dark hairs at his wrists, just peeking from beneath the stiff white of his shirtsleeves. The dark coat was tight around his shoulders.

Such a powerful man.

"We were going to keep it to ourselves for the present, but you know the ladies," Joe said.

"Oh do I ever." Phil laughed a little too loudly, kicking the table and making it jump. Delysia offered him a charmingly fake smile and tossed back her hair.

"Sorry darling. Couldn't keep it in," Edyth purred. She hovered by her fiancée, occasionally touching his arm in a proprietary, possessive way that made Guinevere feel sick to her stomach. If she had any food in her at all, it would be roiling in her twisting gut.

Joe shifted closer, hand dropping to his side. His voice was pitched low, but she could still hear it loud and clear over the bluster of the club. "It's nice to see you again, madam." 

She couldn't look up at him. Not after what she had done. "May I add my congratulations?" she murmured.

Edyth twitched her shoulders and leaned against the table. "Let's dance!" she said, a touch too forcefully, flicking her left hand. The roving light caught on her diamond ring, making it dazzle.

"If you don't mind, Edyth," Joe began slowly. Guinevere could feel the weight of his eyes on her, warm and measuring. It was enough to make her heart race. "I have a--"

"Oh, you drone on Joey!" Edyth snapped. "Leonard will take me for a spin--won't you Lenny?" Those sloe eyes slid from Joe to Guinevere as if daring her to comment, but Guinevere merely slid out of the booth to let the young ones pass. "Delysia, Phil, come on."

Delysia was quick to take up the invitation. "Of course!" she cried, sliding to her feet. The four of them moved to the dance floor carried by a wave of laughter and gin fumes, already moving to the dizzying beat. The other gentlemen began to drift away in obvious disinterest. There was no youth left at the table--there was only plodding, steady, middle-aged quiet.

It was such a relief.

Guinevere slid into the safety of the booth, settling back again as Joe moved to sit across from her. His strong hand gripped the end of his cigar and she tried desperately not to watch as he drew it to his mouth.

It was wrong, coveting another woman's man. Another woman's fiancée, for God's sake. But she couldn't seem to help herself. Really, Guinevere thought darkly, touching her throat in order to feel the pulse racing there. In a day full of sins, what is one more?

She cleared her throat and dropped her hand, then let herself look.

Oh, but he was marvelous. Big and broad and sturdy. Nothing like the flash in the pan men milling about the Scarlett Peacock tonight. Not even like Michael, who was a good man in his own right. Joe Blomfield was in a class of his own. It was his eyes she liked the most, Guinevere decided. Those knowing eyes famed for understanding a woman's figure better than anyone. Or maybe the lines about his eyes. They said something about him--something she wasn't sure she was supposed to know.

Her fingertips itched to touch his face, and Guinevere had to squeeze her hands tight to avoid the temptation, looking out across the dance floor in silence. She watched Edyth moving within the arms of her other beau. She watched Delysia laughing up into Phil's empty-eyed face. She watched swirls of silk and pretty curls as the song came to a crashing end, dancers pausing to applaud. In the roar, Delysia slipped away to prepare herself for her set.

Guinevere looked back when Joe crushed his cigar and moved to stand. "Well, as we have no conversation, I have no option but to ask you for the next dance," he said. His words could have been brusque, but his voice was warm and soft and nearly gentle.

"Alas, no," Guinevere said, already half-lifted from her chair at his offered hand. She had a sinking suspicion she would have taken it even if he'd offered to lead her into hell.

Considering the intricate knots in her stomach, perhaps he was.

"I can dance nothing but the waltz," she added. Moments later, as if conspiring against her, the band changed tunes, falling into the familiar four-beat step. Joe raised his brows in amusement and Guinevere shook her head before taking his hand. It was rough and hot beneath hers. It felt amazing.

She moved unsteadily to the dance floor, aware of her body in a way she hadn't been in years. There must have been something queer in her eyes when she turned toward him--his dark gaze narrowed in concern and he murmured, "Are you all right?" even as he stepped in.

"Yes." Her voice sounded breathy and damning. "Well," Guinevere added quickly, "to take another woman's escort..."

"You didn't take me." Joe reached for her, hand sliding to her waist. The touch echoed through her in hot little bursts. "I took you."

Guinevere allowed herself to be tugged into Joe's arms, stepping close as they fell into the rhythm of the dance. She was not a tiny slip of a girl like Delysia, but for a breathless moment, feeling his heat washing over her, looking up into his face, she felt like it. She felt young and clever and beautiful as she allowed herself to sink more fully against him--closer than she should have been comfortable with. All around, the reds and golds of the club bled together in a fantastical tapestry, like a brilliant watercolor. If she weren't careful, her own edges would begin to blur and fade.

But then Joe's grip on her tightened, sending a thrill of heat through her body, and the world came into near-painful focus.

Oh, she thought, looking up at his face. Not handsome, like Michael. Not pretty, like Phil. Not exciting, like Nick. But so very appealing nonetheless. Oh, I could fall in love with you if I weren't careful.

Then, I am so tired of being careful.

The rest of the crowd faded away to a distant point as Guinevere let the tattered remains of her guard slip away. This was a man famous for knowing the secret curves of a woman's body--who was she to deny him the faded secrets of her own? Guinevere tilted her chin and smiled, reveling in the waves of warmth spilling out from her center.

Then Joe's voice broke into her quiet enjoyment, making her breath catch. "What happened to that particularly beautiful scarf you were wearing at the fashion show?" he asked, a little sly.

Guinevere flushed, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. Oh, God, he knows that was me, she thought, murmuring, "What are you talking about?"

He chuckled. "Despite your most elegant transformation, the body is still the same." One broad palm slid down her spine, fingertips warm along the curve of her hip. Swirls of heat coiled from that simple touch, racing through her body as if caught by a strong wind.

"Mr. Blomfield," she said.

"As are the eyes," Joe said. His grip tightened as he moved her about the floor, effortless and easy. "Most fetching, if I may say."

Her cheeks were hot and her stomach was twisting in the most pleasurable knots. "I'm not really sure you should say." It was hard to be reproving, however, when everything inside her was urging forward, hungry like cracked soil for the rain.

"I'm sorry," he said. He didn't sound particularly sorry. "Professional habit. A bad one. I have to remember you're not like these people."

Guinevere looked up at that, startled and dismayed. "Am I terribly old-fashioned?" she asked earnestly. The delicate whorls of pleasure were fading, as they should. This was another woman's fiancée. This was a man far out of her reach. It was foolish to give herself over to idle dreams as if his flattery meant anything at all.

Joe looked surprised by the question, but he smiled gently, eyes moving across her face. "Indeed you are," he said, refusing to let go of his tight grip when she would have moved away. "And all the better for it."

Oh. Oh. Guinevere closed her eyes, feeling the pleasure once more seep down to her toes. She felt light and vital in his arms, yet nothing at all like the champagne-and-silk crowd swirling about her. His hand on her hip was a steady pressure and his broad body pressed along hers was an endless comfort. She fought the urge to rest her head on his shoulder, knowing it was inappropriate and almost not caring. She had spent the day doing so many things she was supposed to regret. This, out of all of them, felt the most right.

"Am I making you feel uncomfortable?" Joe murmured close to her ear. The concern painting his tone filled her with a steady ache of joy.

Guinevere looked up into his eyes, lips parted. Her cheeks were hot and she couldn't seem to bring herself to care. "This is the most comfortable I've felt all day," she said with breathless honesty.

He seemed struck by her frankness, fingers tightening around hers. She was almost certain he'd say something--something real, open, stripped to the bone--when the song and the moment ended. Guinevere pulled away reluctantly, applauding, and moved from the steady pull of his big body. She turned, feeling flushed and abruptly miserable again, and hurried from the dance floor as the club's oily owner moved up onto the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice booming. Guinevere leaned against a post and touched her hot cheeks. "Welcome to Nick Calderelli's Scarlett Peacock. I'm delighted to introduce you tonight to a very talented lady friend of mine." Nick let the silence draw out for a moment, then added slyly, "And she can sing, too."

Laughter. Guinevere dropped her hands, anger flashing through her, but Nick was already continuing.

"It's my pleasure to bring you Delysia Lafosse!"

The roving lights focused their attention on Delysia as she swaned through the crowd, delicate hands moving about her. "You're too kind, really!" she said brightly. Behind her, moving like a deep shadow, Michael climbed the stage and went to sit at the piano.

Nick leaned over his shoulder, one hand cupping the mic. Guinevere watched as he murmured something in the other man's ear, wondering at the hard, tight look in Michael's face before Nick pulled back again. "And to get us in the mood, we'll start with Hot Shoe Shimmy!" Nick announced, flourishing one hand toward Delysia before climbing off the stage.

Delysia simpered and spread her arms, then jerked at the sudden, discordant slam of piano keys. "Change of program," Michael said. Delysia turned, clearly startled, and stood frozen by his steady look as he added, "If I Didn't Care."

Guinevere didn't understand the undertows of emotion, but she could feel them sifting through the air. Delysia shook her head slightly even as Michael began the opening chords of the song. Her face seemed stripped of emotion when she turned, oddly still and achingly vulnerable.

Oh, Guinevere thought, watching the caged flicker of Delysia's lashes as she gradually sank into the music. She looked fragile and open standing there. So this is Sarah Grubb.

She began singing, slow and careful. It was a beautiful song, made even more beautiful by the simple sweetness of Sarah's voice. It wasn't a strong voice, or a particularly skilled one. There were better singers in the world--more talented women who could carry a tune like a bird in flight. But the lack of polish only made the song sweeter. Guinevere lifted a hand to her throat, following the dips and swells of emotion as it poured out of Sarah, magnified through the low underscore of the piano.

Sarah's eyes were bright with tears. Her shoulders trembled. Once, she turned to Michael and shook her head, trying to stop him, but he was relentless. His hands moved across the keys in a careful, almost sensual glide and his dark eyes were fixed on the woman he loved.

She turned away again, eyes squeezing shut, and Guinevere was sure she wouldn't be able to continue. The white column of her throat worked against tears, then went tighter still when Michael leaned toward the mic and began to sing her part.

Guinevere felt as if she should turn away as the two sang. It felt too intimate, too close. She was an interloper. But she couldn't force her eyes away from the stirring performance even as her breath caught high in her chest. Sarah, she thought, fingers curling into the soft cloth at her collar. Sarah, take this gift.

The song ended as it began, low and sweet. Sarah was openly crying, lashes wet and cheeks stained pink. She'd never looked more beautiful. Then she squared her shoulders and looked up, and suddenly Sarah was gone again. Delysia smiled and spread her arms, canting one hip as the applause faded. "Thank you, thank you. Really," she said. Behind her, Michael's shoulders slumped. "Well let's try something a little more upbeat, shall we?"

She never got the chance. The splitting wail of an air raid siren cut through the heavy air, escalating in a desperate whine. People looked about, shocked and confused, but Guinevere was frozen in place. She remembered that sound, cracking open the night. The wave of memory and grief it brought was paralyzing. The dim lights flickered, then went out entirely. Long, frenzied shadows danced across the ceiling and walls as people rushed by, desperate to escape.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is an air raid shelter!"

It would do no good. Fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen trampled one another in their rush toward the door as others hid like children under tables and chairs--as if that would do them any good. Guinevere turned to a nearby table and lifted a candle. It shone through the crystal holder, casting odd shapes about her as she moved across the floor to where she spotted Delysia crouching under the piano.

The young girl looked up, pale and trembling. "Guinevere I'm scared."

"It's just a drill, I'm sure it's just a drill." She spoke too quickly, stumbling over the comforting words she couldn't really feel.

Delysia must have seen it on her face. She straightened a little, lips parting. Watching Delysia, feeling her wavering there between her brilliant ambitions and her very real fears, it was almost like seeing a nestling prepare to take flight. Above her was the open sky and below a very long way to fall. "But," Delysia said slowly, Sarah again. She'd always be Sarah in these quiet, real moments, "It won't always be, will it? We're going to war, aren't we?"

This was Guinevere's chance. Her one chance to set things right. She put aside the candle and took Sarah's hands in hers, meeting her eyes. She'd sinned all through the day, lying and cheating and meddling in good people's lives. She'd let herself get swept up into a world she couldn't understand.

She was terribly old-fashioned. And that, she felt suddenly deep to her bones, was exactly right.

"Yes, we are. And that is why you must not waste a second of this precious life. Listen to me." Sarah nodded faintly, watching her with earnest eyes. "Once, I too had ambitions. Not your grand ones. Simple ambitions. Marriage, children, and a house of our own. He died. In the mud in France. A good, solid man. You would call him dull, no doubt, but he smiled whenever he saw me and we could've built a life on that."

The air raid siren went silent. A drill, after all.

"Your heart knows the truth. Trust it, for life is short."

And there, in that moment, Sarah smiled and straightened and grew up. She squeezed Guinevere's fingers before sliding out from under the table. "Michael!" she called. Guinevere smiled and reached up to touch her cheeks. They were wet, though she couldn't remember crying. Her body felt hollowed and wrung out.

She felt strangely at peace.

Guinevere turned on her hip, looking across the half-emptied club as the lights slowly began to come back, one by one. Standing by a marble column, steady and sturdy as the earth itself, Joe Blomfield met her eyes.

Her heart skipped when she saw him. And then he began to smile. 

 


End file.
